Warning Sign
by CrazedTB
Summary: I find it sort of funny, that when I wanted to be here, when I felt it would be better than my actual life, I stayed in my own world. Now that my life is happy, and that I haven't immersed myself in these silly, naive fantasies, I end up in this world. I hate everyone here, I hate being here, and I just wish I could go home.


I kind of disagree with that one song about signs. Signs don't fuck up the scenery, but what the people put them up for, what their purpose is, that's what fucks up the scenery. People are hateful, bigoted sometimes, and it's this nature that ruins the simplicity of the agriculture, the nature the signs block. Other times, it's very helpful. How else would I know you can check your game in at the local gas station, or that this is the fanciest, haunted hotel in Parkersburg? I need signs to let me know that, hey, if you walk onto this land, you might get shot at, because it's private property. Warning signs are the best.

* * *

I work in a rather large toy store, part of a large franchise. It was one of those franchises that tried to say they were winning customers-or 'guests' as we called them-over by how polite their employees were. It was really because of the massive deals we have every. Damn. Day. Honestly, every day we have a sale that could rival those given on Black Friday in other stores, and it was because of that fact that we were slammed almost every day.

Except, of course, for most of Sunday.

Sunday was our dead day, when we spent most of our time doing re-shop. I liked Sundays because I could be lazy for a little bit, shuffling along the floor, dragging my shoes on the gritty linoleum. My arms wrested on the handle bar of the cart I was pushing, my chin placed atop of them. I was probably the second shortest person in the store, much to my chagrin. Not because it effected my ability to work, but because it just…_bugged _me. I didn't want to be six foot five or some shit, just a few inches taller so my younger sister couldn't look down at me anymore. In a way she still looked up to me, though, and that was nice, I guess.

I continued my goofy little shuffle through the aisles until they called me up front to a register, when church was out and all the elderly couples poured in in their 'Sunday best.' The lines seemed to never end, but at least I wasn't left to ponder silly little things anymore.

* * *

I wish there was a warning sign when a mean person was headed your way, so you could be prepared for what they say. I wish there was a sign when this old lady approached my register after a sweet married couple. She sauntered up, looking, as my brain automatically registered, cheap. Like an old prostitute, with lip stick that was way too dark messily smeared across her wrinkled lips, and false lashes that were far too long. Her nails clicked as they retrieved her license, and it was everything I could do not to cringe. Fake nails don't bother me themselves, but that clicking noise they make when they touch _anything, _and the way I remembered it feeling when they did, like they were about to come off and take your skin and blood with them. Ew. I offered her a smile as she handed me the card, but did not receive one back. I wasn't fazed: she looked pretty tired. I ran her information through the register as was required, and as I handed it back to her she gave me this wicked grin, playful, mischievous. In those pale blue eyes, behind all those wrinkles, she looked gleeful, like she was plotting something.

"You look miserable," in her voice I could tell this wasn't a reference to how I was feeling today. This was a reference to how I feel every day, how I've always felt. _How I always will feel. _It was like she was making some sort of judgment about my personality, of the way I viewed things, and I didn't like it. My life had taken a turn for the better this past year or so. I was happier than I had ever been, more confident, more satisfied. It could get better in some areas, but in others it was perfect.

I smiled back, one that was rather wary, apprehensive, that didn't come close to touching my eyes. If I looked offended, I wouldn't be surprised.

"I'm actually happier than I've ever been," my smile became more genuine when I said this, and hers only grew darker. I wondered to myself what her problem was, staring blankly at her for a moment, trying to read her, before handing her the receipt. She tucked it and the card back into her shirt, zipping her faux fur coat back up. As she turned her back towards me, purple grey hair hanging low down her back, I could barely hear her mumble 'bitch.' My eyebrows rose in confusion, but when I turned to that next, sweeter old lady, I shrugged it off with a laugh.

* * *

This room was such a common place for me, it almost felt like home, or maybe it was that every place with him was home. Any car, any store, any room, any place I was with him felt like the right place to be. With Troy I felt comfortable, stable. I didn't feel like I was falling anymore, or cornered, trapped on a piece of driftwood in the middle of the ocean. I wasn't scared with him, I wasn't weak or angry. I felt strong with him in my life, and happy beside him.

That's where I am; curled up against him, sweat chilling on our skin as I struggled to pull the blanket over us, the one lying in a tangled heap on the corner of the bed from where he had flung it in the heat of the moment. Troy laughed softly as I tried to straighten the comforter out, a sound that I loved, and would always love. With a playful glare I turned to him, giving it one last tug as I finally found the top corners of the beast. I pulled it over us and nestled myself against his side, his arm around my shoulders, and his bearded chin atop my head.

"I almost thought you wouldn't get it," he murmured, in that same way that was hard to tell if he was kidding or not. When I faked a hurt look, he made it clear he was playing around, showering me with exaggerated apologies, holding me tight and kissing me far too many times to count. I giggled and held him tight.

This was how it almost always was after we made love. We would simply lay there in silence, listening to each other breathing, enjoying the warmth of the other's body. We never had a need to talk; simply being together was enough. Sometimes we'd watch videos on his tablet, sometimes he'd play video games and I'd watch. Rarely did we have conversations afterwards, because we were spent, and again, there wasn't that need. Silence wasn't uncomfortable for us. It felt blissful, calm. When we _did _have a big conversation, it was him finally unwinding a little, telling me some silly story about his day, about something he did with a friend on a game, or a race he got in. He became more talkative, and I became quieter, listening to his opinions and concerns. Beforehand, it was usually the opposite; he the listener, and I, the speaker. Not completely, of course. We had conversations, I was simply the more talkative one; I seemed to be the initiator more often.

I know, this may all sound cheesy to you, but there's no real way to describe it other than in the way the strongest cheddar would taste. I've never been so happy, and it sort of clouds your thoughts, your ability to describe properly how one makes you feel, how a situation feels. I mean, I _can _feel other things besides the emotions, of course. The cool silk of the bed sheets, the even cooler, damp spot left behind when he gets up to go to the bathroom, the sweat still lingering, still not dry. The pillow is still warm, the comforter is a little itchy and plush, and I pull it tight, the air around me cold from the fan. I can smell the sex still lingering in the air, sweat and semen and the wetness that still lingers between my legs. The room is dim from the one lamp, making these blue-grey walls look even darker, the posters a little creepy. In the distance I hear water running, the music from the game that he paused still playing. Then he walks in, and his voice drowns out the music, his warmth fights off the cold, his smile, his eyes, and those crazy, dark curls block those weird ass posters on the wall. Judge me all you want, but this man, the only person in the world I trust, the only person who listens to me, the only person who treats me as an equal, is my world.

He grabs his tablet, those big, long arms of his stretching to the floor and bringing the tablet close to him in a way that we can both watch.

"You gotta watch this one video," there's that eager tone in Troy's voice that's always there when he says that, a sound that makes me smile, "someone did this remix of all the 'echs' that Jon has done on Game Grumps, and it's _beautiful."_

I laughed softly, asking him, "Is it? Is it beautiful?"

"Yes. It's the most beautiful song I've ever heard."

"Will it make me cry?"

"If it doesn't, there might be something wrong with you. I mean, it might be a deal breaker, Kelsey. We might have to see other people, but I don't know."

We just laughed softly, listening to the beautiful song comprised of a man making gagging sounds.

* * *

Saying goodbye has never been easy for me. I don't mean 'saying goodbye,' in the sense that I won't see them for years, but saying goodbye in the sense that I won't see them until tomorrow. I always drag it out, make it kinda awkward, and thank them unnecessarily for allowing me to see them, like I haven't known them for years, like I'm some stranger off the street.

With Troy, I don't hate goodbyes so much because I'm awkward with them, but because I have to leave.

Its cold out and I can see where the water on top his pool cover has frozen. His old beagle jumps up on us, wanting to be let into the garage out of the cold. We tie him up, open the garage door, and I go to start my car, my old blue '98 Honda Civic. So uncool behind his old Corvette and Trans Am, but I love her anyways.

We shiver as we wait for the car to warm up, the little four cylinder making that high pitch whirring sound in the background as we talk. My hands slip into the pockets of his leather jacket, my cheek resting against his chest, wishing I could get to the warmth beneath it. My eyes slowly close as I relaxed, forgetting what time it was, or where I was supposed to be going.

"Troy, can I tell you something?" I said suddenly before apologizing, not really realizing I had interrupted him. "Sorry, I like listening to you talk about cars-even though I have no damn clue what you're saying half the time-but I just….I wanted to tell you something.."

"It's okay you turkey," he told me, a light hearted tone to his voice, though it was also soft, reassuring, "what do you want to tell me?"

I swallowed hard, fiddling with the inside of his jacket pocket. Why I wanted to tell him this now, I had no clue, but now it was too late to turn back.

"You know how…how I said I think about us together when we're really old, or, well….y'know…"

Another soft laugh, "Yeah."

"Well, I….I just wanted to let you know, though I thinks it's pretty obvious, that I-"

"You want to get married?" It wasn't an offer, but him simply finishing my sentence.

I looked up to him then, surprised as I always was when he didn't sound mad when I spoke about the future, and smiled.

"Yeah, but, I don't feel we necessarily have to get married-I mean, I'd like to, but I'd be just happy spending the rest of my life with you," I quickly corrected, with a bit more confidence now.

He gave me that same soft smile, his green eyes gentle, half closed as he looked down to me. I didn't have to study his face hard to understand what that meant; he understood, it made him happy to hear that, and maybe he felt the same way, but he needed to think before answering.

"I know what you mean, silly," he then kissed me softly; not answering whether or not he wanted to as well, but that was fine. I wasn't going to make him answer; I just wanted him to know.

Troy pulls away and looks over to my car, looking lonely against that dark, clear sky, that empty road. Out in the country, the stars were so much brighter. He gave me that same look he did every night when it was time for me to go.

"Kelsey, it's getting late."

"I know," I said, tone disappointed, slumping my shoulders. I could hear him chuckling softly as I shuffled over to the car, turning and waiting for him. He offered me another soft smile before pulling me in for a tight hug, his lips falling hard on mine. Big arms lifted me up with ease, spinning me around for a short time as I giggled. Sometimes, he was all about theatrics, being loud, flamboyant when he was passionate about something, or being affectionate. I loved it.

He set me down gently, giving me a much softer kiss now.

"Be careful, okay? The roads are slick," his voice was firm, with a bit of concern laced in.

"I always am," I told him with a smile, returning his next kiss.

"Text me when you get home," another kiss.

"I will."

With that, he pulled me in for an even bigger hug, a softer kiss, and a gentle smile.

"Okay, I love you."

"I love you more," I argued playfully, sticking my tongue out at him.

"Nooo, you don't," he argued back as he walked further into the garage, "goodbye, I love you so much."

"Bye, I love you too," our voices were cheery even though I was leaving. I hated to leave him with the image of me sad.

I hopped into my little blue car, flipped on the headlights that so badly needed adjustment, and waved goodbye. He waved back as the garage door slowly closed between us.

* * *

I didn't notice that it had snowed a little before leaving his house. It wasn't too bad, but what had fallen mixed with the unfrozen water, making this muddy slush as other cars drove through it. This sort of road condition always made me nervous. Troy would tell me as long as I drove slow I would be fine, and any wreck in this sort of weather was caused by people driving like the roads were clear, but I didn't buy it. I was driving twenty miles under the speed limit, and whenever I hit the brakes, I still slid.

I gritted my teeth, held the steering wheel tight, remembering what my stepdad told me a few days ago. _If you get in a wreck, I'm not paying to fix your car. _To him, that may have been a joke, but to me, that registered as 'we only care about spending the money,' and that was how I felt about it. It never occurred to me if I got into a wreck that I might get hurt; no, it was all about the fact that I wouldn't be able to pay to fix my car. I'm broke. That's the only reason I still even live at home in the first place, that I still have to listen to all this damn talk about how I'm too expensive, all of us were too expensive.

This was the shit I thought about when those red lights came on in front of me. When that car slammed on its brakes, I was too busy getting angry about how my parents treated us as bills to notice those neon red lights until the last second. With wide eyes, and a gasp tearing through my lungs, my foot hit that brake pedal hard. It was too late, though, I was still going too fast, and I had to swerve to miss them. That was my big mistake. Everything happened so fast; my car fishtailed, I tried to counter it, but it sent me straight into the big ass ditch in the median, the one with such steep slopes that it sent my short little car up and over.

Like my grandparents had all those years ago, I flipped, and flipped, and flipped. Three whole times the ground seemed to spin around me, giving me this feeling that I was flying, and on the last one the seat belt couldn't hold me. Gravity brought me down, and with a sharp pain, everything went black.


End file.
